


Mutual Aid

by sixappleseeds



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, it's probably incomplete but also it's complete bc i'm posting it, take the stranger offering to be your pal home to intimidate the relatives on thanksgiving au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixappleseeds/pseuds/sixappleseeds
Summary: You know that Craigslist post where someone offers to be your boyfriend/friend/jerk who distracts your awful relatives on Thanksgiving? That's Ronan





	Mutual Aid

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my fic folder nearly two years after writing it. Probably I intended to write more, two years ago, but since I completely forgot about it instead maybe it's good enough as it is

The text said to meet outside a local bar. Gansey had never been to this particular bar; Google Maps said it was down a side street just a few blocks from his mother's office, and he added it to the list of things he should've known about this town if he ever bothered to visit for more than a day. There was a dive bar here, and it had 4.8 stars on Google. 

A large, rusty van idled in the lot, and it was indeed painted to look like a large guitar. Gansey supposed he'd just have to trust the resemblance to Eddie Van Halen's. He parked the Camaro.

The door to the van opened, so Gansey cut the engine and got out. "Hello," he said. "You're Ronan?" 

Ronan Lynch took his time disembarking from the van, and did not take Gansey's offered hand. "Yep," he said instead. "That's me."

If you'd asked him to describe what a _felon_ looked like, Gansey would not have been sure, until this moment, how to do it without sounding accidentally awful. It was likely that if he tried now he would still say something regrettable, but on the other hand this man before him, currently leaning against the side of his entirely disreputable vehicle, fairly oozed felonious intention. For a moment Gansey regretted contacting him.

"What kind of a name is Gansey?" 

Gansey rolled his shoulders. "Mine." He wondered if the Camaro would start again. His car had a habit of embarrassing him in front of strangers but he hoped it was on his side this time. "I can pay you," he continued. He caught himself staring at the intersection of Ronan's leather jacket and his jawline and jerked his gaze upward. 

Ronan's mouth twisted. "Just the food, man. And let me know if I need to fight anyone." 

In truth Gansey couldn't imagine any member of his family, even some of his broodier cousins, participating in a fistfight. Fights were hissed behind closed doors, if they were acknowledged aloud at all. He took in Ronan's ripped black jeans, shaved head, and the way his teeshirt and jacket collar didn't cover the tattoos snaking around his neck.

"I think that won't be necessary. I think," he continued, quite unintentionally but Ronan had flashed him a look that was closer to amusement than contempt and most of Gansey's filters had dropped away, "they'll take one look at you and steer clear of both of us for the entire evening."

He turned, opened the Camaro's door again. "Which is ideal, because I don't want to attend this dinner, but I have to, and since I have to, I don't want to do it alone. And then I saw your post, and -- " And something had tugged at him, something had said, _This one. This one you can trust._ And this was what he got for browsing Craigslist at three in the morning. An anarchistic felon to bring to terrible family dinners.

Ronan sauntered around the car, knocking his fist on the hood as he passed. "Don't you have any friends?" he asked, leering at Gansey through the passenger door.

Gansey pushed in the clutch and prayed to his engine and chose not to reply. The car rocked, and suddenly Ronan was very close. He smelled, improbably, of forests. Gansey wondered what kind of cologne had so successfully duplicated the scent of the deep woods, and where this sharp, smirking man had found it. 

"Well then," Ronan said as Gansey turned the key and the engine, mercifully, caught, and then roared to life. "Guess I'm glad I didn't want to be alone on Thanksgiving either." 

Gansey glanced at Ronan as he backed out of the parking lot, and caught Ronan looking back, mouth bent like a knife's edge. His eyes were blue, and there was a bird, a raven maybe, stitched onto his jacket's shoulder. Gansey wondered wildly if it was a gang sign. The smell of mist and moss seemed to wrap around him, blending with the diesel fumes of the engine until it was familiar in a way he would have to contemplate later. He found he no longer regretted replying to Ronan's post. 

"My mother's a Republican senator," he said, voice a little rough even to his own ears. He minced the Camaro back down narrow side streets toward the highway, coasting through stop signs. There was no traffic here. "All of my relatives are racist, and rich, and completely intolerable after a few drinks."

Ronan's knees were bumping the glove box and he adjusted the seat. "So no fisticuffs." He said the word like it was something delicious in his mouth. 

"Please," Gansey said.

"Still." Ronan was looking at him again. Gansey kept his eyes on the road. "I took some debate classes a few years ago. Part of my anger management program. Family's shit sometimes. I got you." 

They rolled to a red light, and now Gansey let himself look over, and saw that Ronan's expression had shifted into something -- not soft, but without the sneering edge he’d worn, and it made him look solid, somehow, and steady.

"Light's green," Ronan said.

Gansey realized he was smirking back.

It was possible this evening wouldn't go as horribly as he'd feared. Ronan, beside him, sprawled in the Camaro's seat, and he whooped as Gansey merged onto the empty highway and let his car go, much too fast but it was worth it. Suddenly it was worth it.


End file.
